Unusual Circumstances
by carsinya
Summary: Sheppard and Lorne are trapped off world and must depend on each other for survival. Eventual ShepLorne.
1. Chapter 1

The lithe form moved among the trees as quietly as possible, the occasional rustle of leaves or the snap of a twig the only sounds except for the labored breathing of the figure. Whoever they were, they moved with the unmistakable gait of someone who was injured, and with the slowness of someone in unfamiliar territory. A cloud shifted, exposing one of the planet's moons, and the figure was bathed in light, illuminating their face. Unmistakably male, and with very distinct hazel eyes and a seemingly permanent case of bedhead, Lt. Colonel John Sheppard limped his way over to the cover of a clump of bushes and knelt among them, taking stock of the situation. He set a hand on his thigh, and pulled it away quickly, breathing in sharply as his hand touched the warm, sticky substance saturating his BDUs that could only be blood. The lighting wasn't the best, but he examined the gash on his thigh all the same, trying to see if the bleeding was slowing yet or not.

Rather than risking infection, he dug through the pockets of his tactical vest until he found the gauze, and proceeded to wrap his leg carefully. The end product wasn't the best, but it was tight enough to stay in place and put pressure on the wound. Carson would've done a much better job, but Carson wasn't there, and John wasn't exactly working under the most ideal circumstances. Taking deliberately shallow breaths, he scanned the forest around himself for activity, making sure that he wasn't being followed. He started to slip out of his tac vest, but his ribs protested the action. He was positive he'd at least bruised them in the scuffle at the gate… gritting his teeth, he eased his vest off and laid it beside him, within easy reach. His P-90 was set next to it, but he left his 9mm strapped to his thigh, just in case.

Next, he pulled off his jacket and curled up under it, trying to fit as much of his body under the clothing article as was humanly possible. Despite that, he was soon shivering from the cold, and twitched at every sound, no matter how slight. He knew he was probably being paranoid (how likely was it that they were tracking him, at night, through the woods, when they knew he wouldn't get far and they could just as easily come looking for him at first light?) but he didn't want to be caught off guard again. Clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he rubbed at his arms to warm them, ineffectively. He sighed; it was going to be a long night. Well, at least he (probably) wouldn't be attacked by anything. He really didn't want to have to shoot anything- that would be a dead giveaway of his position, and he really didn't want to have to relocate so soon. As if on cue, the brush off to his left rustled, and a figure appeared, crouching low in an effort to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

"Colonel?" the figure hissed quietly, startling him. It had to be someone from his team or Lorne's- they'd been sent on a joint mission, and were ambushed at the gate, almost as soon as they'd arrived. He couldn't recall exactly who'd made it back through to Atlantis, but obviously at least one other person had been cut off from the city along with him.

"Over here," he replied as loudly as he dared. The figure turned to him, staying low to the ground, and he strained to see who it was, but shadow still obscured the other man's face. Taking care not to make too much noise, the other Atlantean made his way over and joined him in the safety of the underbrush. The close confines of the brush forced John to move over to make room, and for a moment he was thankful that it hadn't been Ronon, or there never would've been room for both of them. As it was, it was a fairly tight squeeze, with the other man's shoulder wedged behind his, and his thigh pressed against his own, thankfully the uninjured one.

"Fancy seeing you here," the other man whispered, and John recognized the voice this time. He turned to his second-in-command, noting for the first time that the Major's hair was nearly as wild as his own at the moment, silhouetted in the moonlight like it was.

"Ditto. Are you ok, Major?" he asked, casting a concerned glance at the other man, not that Lorne could see it, as dark as it was. He already knew exactly what Lorne was going to say, though- what most military men and women said. As far as he could tell, the Major wasn't missing any limbs or packed full of bullets, so unless he was sporting some fatal internal injuries or a really bad hangnail, he looked like he would survive the night. Even if he'd been bleeding out onto the grass, though, there was only one thing that would've come out of his mouth:

"I'm fine, sir." So predictable. "What about you?"

"I'm just peachy," was the reply. Sheppard shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable on the hard-packed dirt, but he could already feel his abused ribs starting to protest the position he was lying in, and the night air was starting to get to him, not that he was going to admit it. Sleep wasn't going to come easily, at least not within the next hour or so, no matter how exhausted he was. There was too much to think about, worry over, and contemplate, not to mention the fact that he was starting to develop the headache from hell but didn't want to take any pain meds if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

"Did everyone else make it through the gate?" he asked. Lorne nodded and waved in the direction he'd come from with a hand. Focusing on his 2IC's face, trying to determine his expression, John noticed that there was a cut above his eye, probably from an unseen tree branch.

"Yes, sir. I think so." Lorne bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth, and John could sympathize. It wasn't exactly easy being separated from the rest of your team without knowing if they'd all made it through the gate.

"I'll take first watch if you want to catch some shut-eye."

"Are you sure?" Lorne asked, though his eyes were already starting to drift closed.

"Honestly, I don't think I could sleep right now anyway." He tried to keep the pain out of his voice, but, judging from the concerned glance Lorne shot him from under half-closed eyelids, he hadn't been very successful. Instead of commenting, though, Lorne just stripped off his tac vest and lay down, hugging his jacket around himself in a desperate bid for warmth. Looking at the violently shivering Major, John sighed theatrically and draped his own jacket over the other man. The Major rolled onto his side, looking up at the messy-haired Colonel with a frown.

"Keep it, sir. It's cold out here and–"

"Exactly," John cut in. "I'll be fine; I spent a year in Antarctica, remember? You, on the other hand, are probably from California or someplace like that and can't handle the cold."

"I'm from Indiana, actually," Lorne retorted. "I'm not the one that's half polar bear, though…" he muttered to himself, turning away from the Colonel, unconsciously hugging the extra jacket closer and burying his face in the rather course material. Admittedly, he was rather thin-skinned compared to the Colonel, but then again Sheppard wasn't fazed by a whole lot, either. Except for bugs or clowns, or that the mess had run out of turkey sandwiches. After a long moment, Lorne said quietly, "Thanks." John looked down at his second-in-command and smiled slightly.

"Don't mention it." Sheppard ran a hand through his hair absently, suppressing a yawn. He was tired, yeah, but there was no way he was going to fall asleep. Lorne could zone out for a few hours without feeling guilty.

---

The night passed uneventfully, and by the next morning, both men had decided that sleeping out in the open would be worth the risk, if they didn't have to deal with the cricks in their necks from the unnatural angles they'd been forced to sleep in. Lorne woke first and, after making sure the coast was clear, found a bush out of sight to answer the call of nature. After washing his hands off with water from his canteen, he returned to their hiding place and checked up on the Colonel, who was awake by that point. Careful not to jar his ribs, the wild-haired flyboy stood, pulled on his tac vest, and went looking for a convenient bush. When he returned, he found Lorne seated, back against a nearby tree, staring gloomily at the small pile of powerbars and MREs in front of him.

"Broccoli casserole or mac and cheese?" he asked, eyeing the former with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Grimacing in agreement, Sheppard nodded at the mac and cheese.

"Did I ever tell you I hate broccoli?" John said conversationally as he went about the task of making himself comfortable, aware of the Major watching him with concern as he eased himself to the ground.

"You might've mentioned it," Lorne said with a mock innocent tone. Then, taking on a more serious tone, "Sir, is there something wrong with your ribs?" he asked suspiciously, having had his own fair share of rib injuries over the years and recognizing the gingerness in his CO's movements. He finished preparing the MREs and set the Colonel's in front of him, eyes taking in his slightly pale cast and the hand pressed against his side in a deceptively casual fashion.

"They're fine," Sheppard lied, digging into the meal. Between bites, he tried to start a conversation. "So, Major, you got any pets back home?"

Lorne frowned at the blatant lie, but answered the Colonel's question. "Yep. A happy-go-lucky mutt my sister insisted on naming Karter. I left him with my sister when I joined the expedition… can you believe it was harder to leave him than it was to leave my family?" His expression was wry as he said that, as though he wasn't sure his CO would understand the feeling.

"I know what you mean. I've got a Doberman called Cujo back in Michigan. He's staying with an old friend right now, but Andy said he can't keep 'im much longer… I'm not really sure what I'm gonna do with him now. I don't really know anybody else back home I'd trust with him." He laughed slightly bitterly. "Look at me, whining to you about my dog. Not exactly the picture of a hard-ass military commander, huh?"

Lorne shrugged. "They're like family."

"Yeah." They sat in silence for a while before Sheppard broke the silence again. "They've got chocolate cake in the mess today, I heard the cooks talking about it before we left yesterday."

Lorne sighed wistfully. "It's been months since I've had chocolate cake. Damn locals… I hope they save us some. Not likely, though… I'm pretty sure they're not expecting us to want cake first thing after we get back." He frowned, falling silent again, and John couldn't help glancing over at his second-in-command with something akin to amusement as he watched a US Air Force Major sulk over not getting any cake.

"Don't worry, Lorne. We'll make their lives hell if they don't have two big chunks of triple chocolate cake waiting for us by the stargate."


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the morning was spent getting themselves cleaned up. After changing the bloodied bandage wrapped around his thigh, Sheppard poked at his ribs, trying to determine the extent of the damage. Lorne, meanwhile, was taking care of his own injuries. He painstakingly inspected the cuts peppering the left side of his neck and face, where he'd been hit by shrapnel when making a break for the gate. John had noticed throughout the morning that he kept his arm held close to his side, like it was hurting him. After watching the Major wince yet again when he stumbled over a patch of uneven ground while pacing around the small clearing they'd holed up in, the Colonel sighed and waved the other man over.

Raising an eyebrow at his second-in-command, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me you hurt your arm?" Lorne shrugged, trying to hide his wince as it jarred his arm, and replied:

"It didn't seem important at the time, sir."

"If I had a quarter for every time I've heard that…" Sheppard sighed, remembering all too well the numerous times he'd said those exact words. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, (he'd been lying on his back) he met the shorter man's eyes and asked dryly, "Any other injuries I should know about? 'Cuz if there are, let me know, ok? I really don't wanna have to drag your ass back to the gate. Hell, at least you're not Ronon." He made an exaggerated face at the thought of dragging the significantly larger Runner back to the stargate under the present circumstances.Lorne smirked slightly at that.

"Says the man that tells everyone he's fine, no matter how fucked up he really is. I'm pretty sure Beckett's about ready for a permanent vacation, what with having to treat stubborn jackasses like us all the time. I think he hates you the most, though, because he patches you up, releases you, and within a day or two you're back for another round. He says you keep stuff quiet, and then when your common cold turns into pneumonia, it's because, and I quote, 'He's a stubborn arse an' refuses ta do what's good fer him.'" That earned the brown-haired airman a good-natured grimace from Sheppard.

"It's really not my fault, I just have a high pain tolerance… his version of fine is way different from mine. I don't hide things, per say; I just don't mention them if I don't think I need to. I mean, do _you _give the Doc a detailed list of every bug bite, scratch, and bruise you've gotten on a mission?" Major Lorne made a face, conceding the point.

"True. Though the fact that you've come back shot full of holes, broken bones galore, and still insisted that you're 'good' doesn't really help your case, sir," he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a slight smirk. It really was surprising, how at ease he was around Sheppard. The man was his commanding officer, perfectly within his rights to have called several of his comments thus far for insubordination. That is, if he'd had no sense of humor, he could've, and gotten away with it. As it was, he had something of an agreement with his men; they showed him the proper respect when it was due, followed orders without hesitation in a combat situation, proved that they were every bit as capable as they'd been said to be, and he returned the favor in his own way.

Which was usually in the form of allowing his men to be relaxed with him, and showed them the same courtesy he did to everyone else. It definitely helped that the Colonel was so easy-going; if he'd been shy (a rarity among commanding officers…) or lacked a healthy sense of humor, he'd have lost his easy camaraderie with his men a long time ago.

Evan was torn from his contemplation of the Colonel's methods by the sound of the brush off to his right rustling, as if something large were heading in their direction. A couple hundred feet off, the undergrowth was disappearing and being shoved aside as something made its way towards them, making steady but rather slow progress, as if slowed by the amount of resistance it met from the forest's plant life.

Both of them had their weapons up in a flash, at the ready despite their wariness of shooting if it wasn't absolutely necessary. They had no way of knowing if it was a hostile or just a native forest animal, so they ducked down, taking up the most defensible positions they could find and checking to see if their safety was on or not. With a deliberately small movement, Evan flicked off the safety and rested the barrel of his P-90 on top of the stump he was taking cover behind, just in case.

The footsteps approached rather slowly, as if whoever (or whatever) it was, it wasn't really sure where it was going. Then, out of the dense underbrush, lumbered a shockingly misshapen creature that closely resembled a leathery, scale-armored lion with a frill of needle-sharp spikes 'round its neck and a set of eyes that gleamed savagely with some indistinguishable emotion. The beast moved fairly slowly, padding forward on disturbingly well-equipped feet, its two-inch claws sinking into the forest floor and spearing leaves on the razor-like tips. It was panting heavily, the smell of blood and rotten flesh thick around it, almost strong enough to make their eyes water. John, taking care to move slowly, brushed a hand over his forehead to get rid of the sweat threatening to run into his eyes. Bright yellow eyes locked onto the movement, and the creature opened its mouth, hissing viciously as it hobbled forward.

Acutely aware of his heart hammering in his chest, John moved his hand again, distracting the beast. He glanced over at Lorne, who'd remained frozen in place and was now drawing one of his knives from its sheath on his belt. As if sensing that something wasn't right about the situation, the beast lurched forward and attempted to latch onto Sheppard's forearm, effectively ripping his P-90 out of his grasp.

"Damn it!"

The giant lizard-feline lunged again, clamping down on the soft flesh of his upper right forearm. The Colonel threw a right hook at the beast, hitting it square between the eyes. It loosened its grip momentarily, shaking its head, a low growl escaping its throat. Taking advantage of the brief respite, John threw himself to the side, leaving the way clear for Lorne to take a shot at the creature. It started after him again, and, desperately, Evan whistled sharply, not really trying for a particular noise but rather making whatever sound he could force out.

Growling, the lion-like lizard changed direction faster than they would've though possible, now the polar opposite of its previous sluggish pace. It was upon him faster than he'd anticipated, and had to dive to the side to avoid the set of well-equipped jaws aimed for his neck. It did, however, lash out with a foot and catch him across his collarbone, opening up a gash almost two inches long and sending his P-90 flying into the underbrush, out of reach. He rolled with the impact and was on his feet again, throwing himself into action, several motions smoothed together into one swift, fluid movement.

Gripping the comforting weight of his stainless steel blade in his left hand, he rose up into a half-kneeling position, took careful aim, and whipped the throwing knife straight at the juncture between the beast's torso and head, stabbing it clear through the neck. Gurgling, the creature dropped, still struggling forward in one last desperate attempt to attack.

"You alright?" came the Colonel's strained voice from the other side if the mound of flesh. Lorne shrugged, then remembered that the Colonel couldn't see him.

"I'm fine sir. What about you? It looked like it did a real number on your arm…" he trailed off as he stood and made his way over to the creature, wrenching his throwing knife from the beast's neck. He then proceeded to wipe it meticulously on the grass, the animal's hide, his sleeve, anything to clean it up. Most airmen didn't care throwing knives; that was more the Marines' specialty, but Lorne was deadly accurate with them and used them with the same efficiency as his 9mm or his P-90. And that was definitely saying something, considering he was one of the more accurate marksmen on the expedition. You didn't get to be second-in-command by sitting on your ass and filing paperwork, after all.

So it was that they spent even _more _time bandaging wounds and cleaning gashes and cuts that morning. The Colonel had received an impressive set of teeth marks on his arm, close to his elbow, and a few new bruises, scrapes, and a very sore trigger finger from having been pulled the wrong way. (The gun had gone one way, his body the other.)

Lorne allowed the Colonel to clean up the gash on his chest with a minimum of fussing, and then they decided to find somewhere else to camp out. Since they couldn't risk a fire and there was no way that they were going to eat raw, bloodied meat, they left the carcass for the scavengers and moved deeper still into the woods. The Major blazed the trail for them both, being careful not to leave too obvious a path, with his CO hobbling along behind him, trying to hide his limp and failing miserably.


	3. Chapter 3

They walked until dusk, then found a likely spot and set up camp. Not that there was much to set up, since they didn't have much in the way of gear to unpack, and they weren't planning on staying there for more than a couple of days, max, anyway. Lorne went to find some running water to (hopefully) fill their canteens, while Sheppard got their dinner ready and dragged some brush over to give them something a bit softer than the ground to sleep on. There was a definite chill in the air by the time the Major returned with their topped off canteens.

Rummaging through his tac vest, John tossed his second-in-command some water purification tablets and after unlacing and removing his boots, he lay back, rubbing the back of his neck absently. He made sure that he kept his P-90 within easy reach, though, as he huddled inside his jacket, pulling his knees up to his chest in what would undoubtedly become a very uncomfortable position in a few minutes.

Taking a swig of the water and grimacing at the taste, Lorne passed the canteen to his CO and followed Sheppard's lead, stretching out on the pile of brush and leaves in a position that was a little colder, but definitely more comfortable. He glanced over at the Colonel questioningly, and smiled in thanks as he followed the other man's hand gesture to the MRE waiting for him. He ate in silence for the most part, taking an occasional sip of water.

As it started to turn to full dark, Sheppard rolled onto his side gingerly and asked tentatively, "Do you know of any ways to conserve warmth besides, erm, you know…"

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Lorne answered, "Erm, no, sir. Not besides the, um, obvious. Sir." He was extremely thankful for the fact that it was nearly too dark for the Colonel to see the furious blush creeping up his neck and across his face. As it was, it was too dark for him to see the fact that his CO was wearing an equally dark shade of crimson.

"Do you think–" John started to ask, then stopped himself, unsure how to voice what he was thinking. Sure, he liked the Major, maybe in more than a strictly platonic way, but Evan was more than likely straight and feeling completely out of his depth. While he had the 'out of his depth' part right, he had no way of knowing that his second-in-command wasn't exactly straight as an arrow, either.

"Um, yeah. Uh, my place or yours?" he asked jokingly, trying to diffuse the awkwardness between them. He sensed more than saw the Colonel's grin as he replied.

"Mine, I think. I've got the comfier bed."

The brown-haired airman inched closer, stopping a few inches away, unsure if the Colonel was actually willing to follow through on the idea. Instead of saying anything, John lifted an arm in offering, and, after taking a deep breath to calm his rapidly beating heart, Evan slid into the gap between his CO's outstretched arm and the ground. John shifted a little closer, until the space between them was nearly non-existent as they lay on their sides under the open sky. Emboldened by his commanding officer's actions, Evan pressed his torso back into the other man's chest, grateful for the warmth that immediately banished the cold permeating his upper body.

Tentatively, Sheppard rested his upper arm against the Major's side, and when the shorter man didn't object, tightened his grip minutely, drawing the other man a little closer. In answer Evan reached back with his foot and jammed it between the other man's calves, trying to warm up his feet. He grabbed his jacket from where it lay beside him and draped it over their legs, accepting the answering half of Sheppard's jacket with a sleepy smile.

"Thanks," he murmured; burrowing closer to the other man, seeking more warmth, until they were pressed flush against each other. Yawning, he rested his head on the messy-haired pilot's shoulder and let his eyes drift closed, suddenly feeling warm and drowsy.

---

The next morning, Sheppard awoke to find his 2IC nestled in his arms, still fast asleep, mouth half-open but no sound escaping it. Trying not to move too much, he leaned across the other man to grab the canteen, unusually aware of the toned flesh beneath him as his stomach brushed the other man's side.

As if on cue, the younger man stirred, rolling over to face the other man. Still half-asleep, he leaned forward casually and kissed him, snuggling closer and running his tongue along the other man's lip teasingly. Sheppard stiffened in shock, and Evan picked up on it, pulling away. Eyes widening, he pinched himself, hard, and an expression of panicked horror overtook his adorably sleepy look. Closing his eyes, trying desperately to compose himself, he asked with feigned casualness, "I'm not dreaming, am I?"

"Nope."

"Shit."

Lorne pulled away entirely, looking miserable. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again, I–" Sheppard cut him off with one of his patented 'shut up, will you?' looks and leaned in, bridging the gap between them. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he brushed his lips against the other man's own, effectively silencing him.

After a moment, he pulled away, and, raising an eyebrow, said, "Don't be."

"Does that mean what I think it does, sir?" Lorne asked carefully, his brain apparently turned to mush by the (slightly) older man's reaction to his behavior. John met his eyes and replied:

"If you think it means I like you, then yes. Actually, make that a hell yes," he corrected himself, smiling. Evan relaxed at that, and returned the smile. For some reason, hearing those words out of John's mouth made everything else just a little more bearable now. He ventured closer again, moving so as to straddle the other man, being careful not to put too much weight on his ribs. Smirking up at his 2IC, John wriggled his hips playfully, causing the other man to make a strangled noise and lean down for a searing kiss.

An hour later, Evan had officially decided that John Sheppard was definitely his favorite CO.

---

The next two days followed much of the same routine; find water, clean up their wounds, find somewhere else to set up camp, and have some fun before bedtime. And in the morning. And the afternoon. And in the evening, too. On their fifth day on the planet, though, their luck finally ran out. (Not surprising, considering neither of them were particularly lucky to start with.)

They were working their way back around to the stargate in the rough equivalent of a giant circle, in the hopes that by the time they got back, the guards there would've thinned out enough for them to shoot their way to the gate. It seemed like they weren't making as much headway as they'd thought, though, because when they reached the edge of the clearing the stargate was supposed to be in, it wasn't there. When they looked more closely, they found that the clearing was similar to the one the gate was in, but not identical. Lorne knew for a fact that there were no fields like this near the stargate, and when he realized that they'd probably drifted from where they'd originally planned to go, he kicked the nearest tree in frustration.

"Easy, Evan. I need you to be my pack mule, and if you break that foot, I'll have to actually carry my own stuff," Sheppard joked, but his voice was tense and he didn't even crack a smile when Lorne snorted loudly and kicked the trunk again for emphasis.

"Take a deep breath and count backwards from a thousand. If you feel like it, count by the prime numbers first and then go back through the rest of them," Sheppard said, completely seriously. "It's what I do when I get pissed off and shooting the hell out of the problem isn't an option."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the closet math geek here, John," the Major retorted, making a face that under different circumstances would've been childish, but at the moment it fit the situation perfectly. John shot him a wounded look and then, as if just realizing something, dropped the canteen he was holding.

"How did you know I was good at math?" he asked.

"It's not exactly a secret, I mean, McKay was going on about you helping him in the labs during dinner a few weeks ago. I think he was telling Zelenka he could borrow you in exchange for chocolate," Evan replied, screwing up his face in thought as he tried to remember the exact wording.

"Was he now?" Sheppard muttered, eyes narrowing in a way that had the Major shooting him a nervous look, even though he knew he wasn't going to be the recipient of some horrible form of revenge. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he leant over to retrieve the canteen lying abandoned in the grass. There was a strangled growl behind him and, raising an eyebrow playfully, he straightened up with a little more motion than was strictly necessary. The sound was repeated, then choked off, and he turned to find his CO's eyes riveted on his southern regions, a glint in the hazel orbs he'd come to recognize as lust.

Sheppard took a step closer and slid an arm around his waist, resting his hand comfortably on his hip. Evan cast him a not-quite-questioning look and the Colonel shrugged, smirking.

"What? I need a little assistance, ok? I mean, everybody needs somebody solid to lean on sometime, right?" And he leaned against the other man's side, pressing their bodies together and catching the other man's ankle. With an answering smirk, Evan slid his left arm around Sheppard's shoulders and rested his head against the closest area, which happened to be the crook of the messy-haired Colonel's neck. Breathing in his scent, Evan smiled deviously and poked out his tongue, licking his way up the Colonel's neck. He tasted like sweat and dirt, and just a hint of soap from washing in the stream. He followed his tongue with his lips, mouthing his way up to the Colonel's chin, leaving a trail of hickeys in his wake.

He then proceeded to latch onto his bottom lip and suck, smiling slyly the entire time. From there he turned his attention to the taller man's ear, nipping and sucking on it with the ease of someone who'd done it numerous times before.

"Mmm. You taste good…" he murmured, still occupied by the other man's ear.

"I taste like I haven't showered in days," Sheppard snorted, but he allowed the Major to finish with his ear all the same. Hands trailed over his body, sliding under his shirt and- oh god- toying with the waistband of his pants, and he looked down at the other man with a glint in his eyes and said, "Any time now would be nice." Lorne just grinned wolfishly and replied:

"Yes, sir."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: My apologies for the ridiculously long wait- don't worry, though, this fic isn't abandoned. I am, however, putting it on hiatus for the time being. Real life's been hectic lately and I haven't had time to write much. (Rest assured, though, I will start writing on this again as soon as possible.)

Sorry, folks.

--

By the end of the week they were pretty much out of food, and as far as they could tell still no closer to actually finding the Gate. Things weren't looking so good on the supplies front, either –they were down to the last of the water purification tablets, and the river water wasn't exactly clean. Both of them had been in much worse situations before, though, so they didn't worry about it _too _much.

It definitely helped that the natives had apparently given up on hunting them down and stabbing and/or shooting them repeatedly with sharp, most-likely-lethal objects; maybe they'd assumed that the Lanteans would've been eaten by the wildlife or something by now, or were under the impression that neither of the men could 'hack it'. Either way, they were thankful for at least that small mercy.

Not having hunting parties of pissed off natives chasing them through the forest didn't change the fact that they weren't exactly equipped for an extended stay, though. Which was why the two of them were down at the river, trying unsuccessfully to catch themselves some not-quite-fish, using their knives lashed to the ends of broken-off tree limbs to spear the sleek, silvery pseudo-fish.

It was a pretty pathetic attempt, truth be told, owing to the fact that neither of them were particularly good at it, and the not-fish were a lot faster than them.

After several failed attempts to spear a fish, they tried using their hands, which was an even more spectacular failure despite their quick reflexes. Eventually, John flopped down on the riverbank, sighing, "I give up. There's no way we're gonna catch one of those damn fish."

Nodding morosely in agreement, Evan slumped down next to him and rubbed at the back of his neck, which was undoubtedly sunburned from being out in the open for so long. "You think there's crayfish down in there?" he asked after a long moment of silence, glancing down towards the water and the multitude of half-submerged rocks in it.

"Didn't see any," John drawled, cracking an eye open and turning his head slightly to get a better look at the Major. "Why don't you stick a toe down in between those rocks and check?" he asked sarcastically.

"Sure, why not?" Evan snorted, making no move to get up and jam his feet into crevasses in search of mini-lobsters with pinchers more than capable of drawing blood. Doing stupid, potentially dangerous things out of sheer boredom was more the Marines' area of expertise. Well, and John's, when he was feeling particularly reckless.

After a moment of silence, Lorne commented idly, "When I was a kid, my mom used to take me and my sister down to the lake by our house. There were these _huge _crayfish in there, I mean _seriously_ huge. Like, almost as long as my hand."

"Yeah?" John prompted, pushing himself up on his elbows to look over at Evan, sun-induced drowsiness apparently forgotten.

"Yeah. We'd go down in the rocks, right along the shore, and poke at them with sticks until they moved. One time one of them grabbed the end of my stick, and I tried to pull it off… my mom thought I was being attacked, I screamed so loud when it clamped onto my thumb. Those pinchers hurt like hell," Lorne finished wryly, rubbing at a small, barely noticeable scar on his left thumb.

John grinned at the image his mind conjured up, of a young Evan flailing around, ankle-deep in the water, with a giant crayfish clinging to his thumb for dear life. It was the sort of thing you'd take a picture of, so you could bring it out later as blackmail material when the little kid who'd screamed like a banshee at a tiny cut had grown up into a hard-ass soldier that vehemently denied any accusations of _ever _having a less-than-stellar tolerance for pain.

"That reminds me of the time I tripped over my skateboard," John said, wrinkling his nose. "Broke my wrist and gave myself a concussion, and I wasn't even riding it at the time."

Evan couldn't help it- he burst out laughing. It sounded like exactly the sort of injury John would manage to inflict on himself. Less than two months before, he'd somehow sprained his ankle in his sleep. _In his sleep. _He hadn't even known that was _possible_.

Then again, John had quite the track record when it came to doing the impossible.

--

That night they decided to set up camp on the edge of the river, making a crude lean-to out of tree limbs and brush gathered from the forest. They lined it with leaves in an attempt to insulate it a little more—the nights were getting colder and colder every day—not that it would do them much good in the long run.

When darkness fell, they made a small fire, not enough to be noticeable, but hopefully enough to keep them from getting too cold. Then they huddled inside their lean-to, wrapped in their jackets, with Sheppard plasteredto Lorne's back, arms wrapped around him.

It wasn't warm, exactly, but it wasn't so cold that it was unbearable, either.

For the millionth time in the last week, John found himself thinking longingly of the sleeping bags they usually had on missions. Thick and well insulated, surprisingly warm for something so light, and he was cold enough at the moment that he would probably give his left nut for one, should it come down to that.

He contented himself with snuggling closer to Lorne, burying his face in the shorter man's neck and breathing in the Major's scent. It was intoxicating, a combination of sweat, the forest, and something else that he couldn't quite place, something distinctly Evan.

Sighing, he pressed his lips to the other man's neck. "You know, except for the being stranded in the wilderness with barely enough to keep us alive part, this isn't all that bad."

"Yeah?" Evan murmured, smiling slightly, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Yeah. I mean, we're nice and comfy here," he murmured back, wriggling his hips suggestively to demonstrate just how 'comfy' he was, "and I can touch you whenever I want. What's not to like about that?"

There was no reply; Evan had already fallen asleep. With a sappy smile—which he would never ever in a million years admit to—he tightened his hold on the other man and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to drag him down into the abyss.

--

The next morning John awoke to the sound of footsteps. He could still feel Evan pressed up against him, his breathing deep and slow—clearly still asleep and not walking around—and he froze, hoping that whoever it was hadn't noticed his movements.

"I know you're awake," an unfamiliar—and definitely male—voice said from off to the left somewhere, sounding amused.

Apparently that was too much to hope for. Maybe the Universe really _was _out to get him. Or else he'd managed to piss off someone important in a previous life or something, which, knowing him, was pretty likely considering the number of important people he'd already managed to get on the bad side of in just _this_ lifetime.

Cracking an eye open—slowly—he looked around in search of the body attached to the voice. Scanning the area directly in front of him, he tilted his head to look off to the side. He stopped abruptly when he saw a pair of booted feet several feet away, between their shelter and the forest.

"Hi there," he drawled, trying to sound as friendly and unthreatening as possible. "You're not gonna shoot me or something if I move, are you? 'Cuz this isn't really the most comfortable position in the world." His arm had gone numb sometime during the night, and there was a rock digging into his hip.

There was no reply except for an amused snort, which he took for acquiescence. "Major," he murmured to Evan as he tugged his arm out from under the other man's warm bulk, "time to return to the land of the living."

After a long moment, Evan inched a single bleary eye open and grunted something that sounded vaguely like, "Five more minutes." Resisting the urge to sigh dramatically despite the circumstances, Sheppard sat up slowly, grasping the other man's shoulder and shaking a little more roughly than was strictly necessary had it been anyone else. In the last couple of weeks, he'd learned that the Major was a pretty heavy sleeper- it took quite a bit to wake him up, especially when he was warm and comfortable and not in the mood to get up.

"Evan, get your ass in gear," he said. "We have a visitor."

Apparently those had been the magic words, because Lorne was awake, pushing himself up onto his elbows awkwardly, in no time flat. His back was bent at an angle that, five minutes ago, John would have said was physically impossible, and undoubtedly more than a little uncomfortable, too.

"Who?" Evan asked warily, looking around carefully in search of the threat.

"Umm…" Sheppard began, then addressed the stranger, "What's your name?"

"Eilen," the man replied, raising his eyebrows. "And shouldn't _I _be asking _you_ that question?"

"I'm Colonel Sheppard, and this," he gestured towards Evan, "is Major Lorne." He cocked an eyebrow, purposely leaned back on his elbows in a gesture of nonchalance, and drawled, "So, what brings you to our neck of the woods, Eilen?"

The man raised an eyebrow, but replied, "You're kind of monopolizing my stream."

"Oh. Sorry 'bout that. We'll move."

"Alright," Eilen nodded, apparently satisfied with Sheppard's quick acquiescence. "What exactly are you doing here?" he asked, curious.

"Umm…" Lorne began awkwardly, "We kinda got lost. You wouldn't happen to know the way to the Stargate, would you?"

"Stargate?"

"Yeah, big round thing made of metal, lights up?"

"You mean the Great Ring? It's not that far, a couple days walk to the east if you can take the most direct route. If I were you, though," he said, eyeing their ragged appearances, "I'd take the roundabout way instead. You'd never make it through the Pits on foot."

"Right. Roundabout way it is then. About how long would it take us, do you think?" John asked. "I mean, you've got a nice place here and all, but we'd kinda like to get home."

"Around five days, if you're willing to push yourselves. It's in the middle of a big clearing, pretty hard to miss," Eilen said with a smirk. Obviously he thought they'd gotten lost straight away and then wandered around in search of the Gate, going in the wrong direction the entire time. Which was partly true, but still. He didn't have to look so amused by their situation.

"Thanks," John said. "We'll be on our way then. Sorry about taking over your riverbank here."

"Don't worry about it," Eilen replied with a smile. "I probably would've done the same thing if I were in your situation." He left it unsaid that he thought he would've had an easier time of it, though- clearly he thought they were a couple of soft city boys, completely incapable of surviving in the wilderness for any length of time. He had no way of knowing that the majority of their injuries were caused by his fellow natives.

"Yeah," John replied noncommittally. Evan just nodded politely and twisted around to grab his boots, which were sitting off to the side where he'd left them the night before, out of the way if he'd decided to roll over in his sleep.

--

After getting dressed and gathering together their meager stash of supplies, they dismantled their cobbled-together lean-to and went on their way, walking in the direction that Eilen had pointed out for them. John took point, partially because he wanted to be first in line if they ran into any trouble, and partially because he had longer legs and would therefore have an easier time navigating the thick underbrush.

Thankfully it looked to be a somewhat overcast day, and the sun wasn't beating down on them, otherwise both of them—Lorne in particular—would've been sunburned in no time. They trudged through the forest, trampling down the underbrush as they went because there was no clear trail to follow, other than the game trails scattered around among the trees. Once they startled a pair of what looked to be deer—that is, they looked like deer until they got closer and they saw the tiger stripes and wing-like appendages the creatures were sporting—that spooked and took off as soon as they caught sight of them.

The morning dragged on, the two of them—neither of which had anything even remotely resembling a long attention span—quickly growing bored with the silence and the less-than-awe-inspiring scenery.

"So…" John began, wracking his brain for something halfway interesting that they hadn't already talked to death. "You like football?"

"Yep. I used to play when I was in high school."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Evan replied, ducking underneath a low-hanging branch. "I was the quarterback, believe it or not."

John grinned. "Cool."

"What about you?"

"Wide receiver," he said. "I ran track, too," he added, before Lorne could open his mouth and say something about John's 'glory hounding'.

"Lemme guess," Evan drawled, smirking. "Hurdles? Or long jump?"

"Both," John admitted with a quick grin, turning slightly so that Lorne could see his face when he spoke. "I kinda sucked at the hurdles, though. I walked around with bruises on my legs pretty much all season. The couch thought it was _funny_."

Secretly, Evan kind of agreed with John's old track coach, but he decided to be nice and not voice that particular thought out loud.


End file.
